Call Me Grim (6 page)

“Max is always my responsibility.” My face is hot and my hands ball at my sides. “You’re never here.”

Her cheeks drain of color as she stares, opened-mouthed, at me.

“You know I can’t help that,” she whispers. “I have to work.”

“Well, just so you know, I
do
have friends, but I never get to see them unless I’m in school because I’m
always
. Responsible. For Max.” I blink away the angry tears that spring to my eyes. “And just because you can’t get over Dad and date someone doesn’t mean I can’t. I have a life.”

Mom opens her mouth to speak then snaps it closed again. The vein in her left temple pulses as she fixes me with narrowed eyes. She juts her finger at the stairs.

“Go to your room,” she growls. “I can’t look at you right now.”

“Fine!” I storm up the stairs and glare at Max as I pass him in the hallway.

“Thanks a lot, pal.”

“I’m sorry.” His cheeks blaze, making his freckles stand out. “I was worried about you.”

“Whatever.” I slam my bedroom door.

The floorboards groan as I pace beside my bed. It’s my fault; I know that. I shouldn’t have left Max alone, no matter how badly my head hurt. And Mom was just worried about me, but I’m still pissed off. What I said was true, even if I pushed a few of Mom’s buttons to say it. I
am
always stuck with Max. I love him, but he’s my little redheaded ball-and-chain. It’s not fair.

Kyle and Haley get to do things after school. Kyle has Red Motive, and Haley has student council and debate team. They don’t even have curfews, not that Haley needs one. She’s always home early. But me? I don’t have a curfew either, because I never go out.

The red numbers of the alarm clock on my nightstand glow five minutes after nine. I settle on the edge of my bed, tapping my feet and listening to the house. Max plunks something—probably his tennis ball—against the wall he and I share. My Metric poster vibrates with each
plunk, plunk, plunk
.

The drone of Mom’s voice floats up from the kitchen. She’s on the phone, most likely with Dad. The two of them are kaput, but she can’t stop herself from calling him whenever we fight.

My gaze drifts to the mirror over my dresser. My bloodshot eyes make the green of my irises seem unnaturally bright. Add in the pink cheeks and insane hair and I can’t decide if I look more frightened or frightening. All I know is I look like shit. I rub my hands over my wet cheeks and smooth my hair down.

I grab my sketchbook off my desk and flip to an empty page. The white paper stares up at me, challenges me. Between failing the history final, pissing Haley off, creepy Aaron, this Grim Reaper stuff, and fighting with Mom, I want to make the page black. I want to cover every inch of it with angry streaks of charcoal.

My pencil darts across the page, and I let the familiar motions take me away. Sketch, shade, smooth. The drawing takes shape almost on its own, and the soft lines I create bring my boiling blood down to a simmer.

Drawing has always had this effect on me. That’s probably why I like it so much. It’s as if my emotions live on the tips of my pencils and as I lay down line after line, they channel my feelings, no matter how ugly, and make something beautiful.

The finished sketch isn’t the angry mess of black lines I originally planned. Like always, my pencils took control. I hold up the page to see Aaron’s beautiful, piercing eyes gazing back at me.

I want to save your life,
Aaron said.
And believe me, Libbi, saving lives is not something I do often.

Since Aaron is the Grim Reaper, I guess it makes sense he doesn’t save lives often. But why me? What’s so special about me?

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

I stand up from the bed, wrap my black hoodie around my waist, and hitch my purse over my shoulder. I can’t listen to Max thunk his ball against the wall and Mom whine to Dad about me anymore. I have to get out of here.

The window squeals as I shimmy it up. The noise sounds like a freight train, and I freeze, breath caught in my throat.

Plunk, plunk, plunk
from Max’s wall.

Blah, blah, blah
from the kitchen.

I heave a sigh and slide the window open all the way.

A cool breeze billows my curtains and caresses my cheeks and hair. The air feels good. The house is stuffy, suffocating. I straddle the windowpane and search with my foot for the roof of the front porch. When I find it, I swing my other leg over the windowsill and jump down onto the roof. I close my window and crouch-walk to the end of the roof.

Six intricately designed, wrought iron pillars hold up the overhang of the front porch, like six black ladders. On warm summer days, I’ve sat on the porch swing and worried about how easily a psychopathic murderer could climb those pillars and break in. It never crossed my mind I would use them to sneak out.

The wind chime in the backyard makes a lonely ting in the breeze as I climb down the closest pillar and step over the railing onto the front porch, behind the swing. As I tiptoe by the front door, I almost lose my nerve.

I can see Mom through the lace of the curtain. She’s finished her phone conversation and sits at the kitchen table with her head propped in one hand. Wisps of her hair tuft out between her fingers. Purple smudges have appeared under her eyes, and the soft wrinkles she likes to call “crow’s feet” look harsh and deep.

Even though I have Dad’s dark, wavy hair, I have Mom’s green eyes and round face. Strangers sometimes ask us if we’re sisters, but I don’t think they’d have trouble figuring out our relationship tonight. She’s obviously the worried mother, and I’m the screwed up daughter.

A small part of me wants to walk in there, place my hand on her shoulder, and tell her it’s going to be okay. I even take a step toward the front door, but I can’t go in. If I moseyed in the front door after she sent me to my room, I could pretty much kiss my scrawny butt good-bye.

I could climb back up the pillar to my room, but the thought of breathing that stale air and listening to Max’s ball hit the wall until I finally fall asleep makes my stomach turn.

Instead, I turn away from the door and my Mom and face Hell’s Highway for the second time this evening with the same question: should I bring my car? It might be handy, but it’s noisy. If I start it, it will be like announcing with a bullhorn that I’m sneaking out.

Jumpers’ Bridge isn’t far from my house, within walking distance, and half of that walk is on the railroad tracks. So I really don’t need my car. I’m more than a little nervous to keep my word and meet Aaron—petrified, actually—but tonight I’m in a daring mood. I’ll be there earlier than midnight, but I can wait.

It’s not like I have a curfew.

My tennis shoes crunch the gravel between the ties of the railroad tracks.

The breeze that felt so nice at my bedroom window bites into my cheeks, and my breath billows in a white cloud in front of my face. I yank my hood up, tuck my hands in my sleeves, and shove them into my hoodie pockets.

The rails glitter in the moonlight as they curve gently away. Maybe they lead south to Florida or west to California. I don’t know, and it really doesn’t matter. The rails lead to Jumpers’ Bridge. They lead to answers.

The truss of Jumpers’ Bridge grows out of the darkness like a spiny, ancient dragon; the roar of Carroll Falls his warning growl. Mom says Carroll Falls Bridge picked up its morbid nickname after countless suicidal people jumped off the bridge to their deaths. I like to think the nickname came from stupid, bungee-cord-carrying thrill seekers, but maybe I’m being optimistic.

Tonight, there are no idiot thrill-seekers or suicidals clinging to the cold steel of the truss, working up the nerve to take the plunge. Nor is there a certain Grim Reaper. I’m early, as I knew I would be, and the skeletal bridge is deserted.

I hum a nervous melody, and it drops to the bottom of the ravine. The bright moonlight illuminates the ties and the rails, but it’s still too dark to see the white water of the river below. I offer up a silent thank you for that miracle. I’ve never been fond of heights, and if I could see the long drop to the river I don’t think I’d be able to breathe, much less stand around waiting for Aaron.

To distract myself from the thought of plunging to my death, I face the bridge’s namesake: Carroll Falls. The water spills over the lip of the cliff above me and shimmers in the moonlight as it cascades down. The spray drifts up from below, adding to the chill. I shiver, cross my arms over my chest, and turn away from the waterfall.

A light as bright as a police car’s searchlight shines from the other side of the bridge. I would think it’s the headlight of a train, but it’s moving too slow, there’s no rumble of the tracks under my feet, and there was no warning whistle. As trains approach the bridge, regardless of the time of day, they’re supposed to sound their whistles. The shrill noise often stirs me from a deep sleep and makes me want to sever the whistle-pulling arm of every engineer alive.

No whistle, not a train.

The light takes on a human shape as it gets closer, and as it approaches the bridge’s midpoint, I recognize it as Aaron. He raises one hand in greeting.

“You came,” he says with a bright smile. “I was a little worried you wouldn’t.”

“Of course I came.” I shrug. “I told you I would. Not to mention, I had a fight with my mom and needed some fresh air anyway.”

“I just thought, after you were late to the nursing home…”

“Well, I didn’t want to go to the nursing home. Your headache sort of made me go. Not to be insulting, Aaron, but you’re a little creepy.” I rub my arms and look over his head at the dark ribs of the bridge. “And so is this bridge.”

Aaron chuckles. “This place is a bit eerie, but
I’m
not so bad…once you get to know me.”

I disagree. The more I get to know Aaron Shepherd, the creepier he becomes.

“So why here?” I ask.

“Well, I live close to this bridge, and it’s a place I knew you’d know. Plus it’s away from town and prying eyes.”

“It’s probably a busy place for you, too. All those suicides.”

“Um.” Aaron runs a hand through his hair. “Well, that has something to do with it too, I guess. Let’s get away from the bridge. It’s freezing.”

He strolls the last few feet of the bridge, jumping from tie to tie like he could cross it in his sleep. He meets me at the entrance, and then motions for me to follow him. I have to jog to keep up with his long strides. We step out of the wind tunnel created by the ravine, and the chilly breeze disappears. Away from the bridge, my tightly coiled muscles relax.

I lower my hood. Even in the dark, I don’t want hoodie hair. I use my fingertips to comb through the tangled mop on top of my head and glance up at Aaron.

His cheeks flush a deep crimson as he drops his gaze to the ground at his feet. Whatever he’s searching for in the gravel must be hard to see, because it takes him a while to look up and meet my eyes again. When he does, he peeks at me through his lashes and smiles.

My stomach summersaults, and I restrain a stupid, middle-school giggle. Now it’s my turn to blush but, thankfully, he doesn’t see it. He’s turned away.

“So, you can feel cold?”

“I felt your punch, didn’t I?” He rubs his chin and winces. “I have a bruise.”

“Yeah, but you’re the Grim Reaper,” I say. “Aren’t you, like, supernatural and all-powerful and stuff?”

“Ha! I’m powerful, but not
all
-powerful. And I’m not
the
Grim Reaper. That’s Abaddon. I’m
a
Grim Reaper. There’s a big difference.”

“What? There’s more than one?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t know exactly how many, but there has to be a ton of us. We each work a small territory.” He picks a dry leaf off of his sleeve. “I work Carroll Falls, plus a few miles outside of town.”

“Still, even as
a
Grim Reaper, and not
the
Grim Reaper, you were invisible to that secretary. And you walked through the freaking door.” I almost add his ability to predict my impending death, but that’s an area I’m not quite ready to face. “That counts as supernatural and all-powerful to me.”

“Well, trust me, it’s not.” His eyes grow dark for a fraction of a second, then his lips spread in a bright smile. “I have those powers so I can do my job. I’m invisible so I can escort a soul to the Gateway without being seen. I can walk through walls because some people, a lot of people, die where it’s not easy to reach them.”

A thought flickers through my mind: me, dead and cold and squished between a smoking pick-up truck and a twisted Honda. I bet it would have been hard to reach me there. I shudder.

“Oh, and I can run really fast too,” he adds with a wink.

“So you’re not all-powerful, but you have supernatural powers?”

“That sounds about right.” Aaron’s perpetual grin falters for a moment as he crumples the leaf he pulled off his shirt and flicks it to the ground. “My powers are the tools I need to do my job.”

“Yeah, tools for your job,” I say dismissively. “And you bruise and feel cold, so you’re not dead.”

“Nope. I eat and sleep and everything. I’m as alive as you are.”

Something slinks through the tall grass at the edge of the woods. I follow the light emanating from the small animal until it disappears in the underbrush. Geesh. Even raccoons glow now.

“Okay, what’s the deal with the glowing people? Everyone looks like they drank radioactive Kool-Aid or something. Even that raccoon.” I point into the underbrush where the shape of the animal glows through the leaves. “And you’re the brightest of everyone. I almost need sunglasses to look at you.”

I look up into his faded blue eyes. Good Lord, he’s cute. He’s also scary and weird, but if I had met him at school—well, if I’d met him at school the
normal
way—Haley and I would have drooled over him. Maybe it’s the “tall, dark, and dangerous” thing.

“The glow you’re seeing is the soul,” he says patiently.

“You collect the souls of animals too?”

“No. I don’t know what happens to them. I can’t touch their souls.” He shakes his head dismissively and switches back to teacher mode. “For a Reaper, the brightness of the
human
soul is a gauge, like a measure. The intensity of that light tells us approximately how much time a person has left before their scheduled death. The brighter the soul, the more time. Does that make sense?”